


come a little closer

by butterflysky



Series: help me piece it all together, darling [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Party, Avengers Tower, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Infinity War spoilers, References to past trauma, References to red room, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, but i don't think it's really necessary, coffee dates, just a ton of fluff tbh, probably makes more sense if you've read the first part, rebecca is also just mentioned/talked about, somebody has to keep throwing these parties, takes place post-infinity war, there's also lots of steve & sam & bucky friendship, tony is just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 00:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14863587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflysky/pseuds/butterflysky
Summary: Natasha has always been one for going slow, being methodical, thorough, taking a magnifying glass to something and examining it from every angle until she’s uncovered all of its secrets; she approaches her (re)burgeoning relationship with James in the exact same way.(Natasha and James figure out their relationship.)





	come a little closer

Natasha has always been one for going slow, being methodical, thorough, taking a magnifying glass to something and examining it from every angle until she’s uncovered all of its secrets; she approaches her (re)burgeoning relationship with James in the exact same way. She’s going to go _slow,_ even though she wants to dash headlong into the thick of things, and she’s going to be _careful,_ because this it’s all too new even if it’s old. She doesn’t want any of the things that defined them in the past to define them in their future — no more snatched, stolen moments hidden out of sight, no more rushed words, no more desperation and no more _fear._

They have time now, more of it than either of them know what to do with. James has been retired ever since they solved the Thanos issue, and Natasha hasn’t been in a hurry to run back into the field, either. They have time for a _movie night,_ which Natasha can hardly wrap her head around, even as she watches popcorn rotate in her microwave. She can only _imagine_ James’s opinion on microwave popcorn.

The popcorn’s in a bowl on her coffee table, and Mulan is ready on her TV (with about six Disney movies queued after it, just in case) and she’s sat with her legs up on her sofa when she realises that she’s… _concerned._ Not worried, not nervous, just concerned. Concerned that things are too different now for anything to work. Concerned that neither of them will find the right way to navigate the space between them. Concerned that there’s too much water under the bridge.

She’s mulling this over when someone knocks on her door. It’s him, obviously, but she looks through the spy hole before she opens the door anyway. His head is turned sideways, looking back the way he came, and there’s something in the soft wave of his hair against the sharp line of his jaw that makes her feel a kind of glow in her chest. She opens the door.

“Do you have any idea how many different kinds of popcorn there are, now?” he says, apparently by way of greeting. He holds up a bag of cinnamon flavoured popcorn for her to consider. “Whatever happened to sweet or salted? I swear, one of them was _cheese_ flavoured. Who would eat that?”

She laughs, and opens the door wide enough for him to walk inside. “I made popcorn. Salted _and_ sweet.”

He steps past her into her apartment. “Microwave popcorn?”

“Uh huh,” Natasha says, and shuts the door. There’s something very _significant_ about the sound, something that reminds them they’re alone in a private space for the first time in a long time. At least, that’s what Natasha thinks — James’s fingers twitch just slightly on his popcorn bag, and she guesses he’s thinking along the same lines. 

“Weird,” he says, with a smile that she can’t help returning.

When Natasha settles back on the cushions, and James eases down beside her — with an entire pillow between them, she notices — she thinks tonight isn’t the time for that _catching up_ he’d spoken about. Things feel too tentative for the spectre of those cold, dark memories. No, tonight’s the time for popcorn and cartoons — the rest will come later, she thinks. She hopes.

“This better be good, Nat,” James says, throwing a handful of cinnamon popcorn in his mouth. “I’ve put my trust in you.”

“And I won’t betray it,” she says, lightly, and hits play.

Every time she glances across at him as the movie plays, he’s utterly absorbed, popcorn bowl forgotten in his lap.

 

 

By the time the movie is done, they’re closer together — close enough that they’re touching from shoulder to elbow where they’ve slumped low and sideways, and he feels so _warm._ The fabric of his shirt is soft. It’s…comforting. The glow in her chest burns brighter. 

“You were right,” James says. “That was good.”

“ _Good?_ ” she repeats, scandalised. “Is that it?”

“ _Great,_ ” he says, grinning at the blank screen. “Brilliant, amazing, and so on.”

“And _so on._ ”

He turns his head to look down at her, and her breath jumps. They’re close enough that he would have heard, she’s sure.

“What’s your second favourite film?” he asks, quiet, suddenly.

“Toy Story is up next,” she says, because she doesn’t have her second favourite film queued up and, for some reason, lying to him about something even as trivial as that feels wrong.

He reaches past her for the remote and hits play, and when he leans back to his half of the sofa, his arm stays round her shoulders.

 

 

She settles in closer and closer as the movie goes on, and when it’s finished, she’s curled up against his side. His fingers are skating through her hair and she’s doing her best not to shiver too obviously.

“This was really nice,” he murmurs, and she feels the vibration of his chest against her cheek.

It was more than nice, she thinks. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

She can feel him hesitating to say something. She waits. The hand in her hair stills, then drops to her shoulder, and his thumb starts rubbing up and down — a little, thoughtless gesture, she knows, but there’s something thrilling about it all the same.

“I want to know you again,” he says, and she lifts her head a bit, confused. “I knew you then,” he says, and from this angle he can look her straight in the eye. “But I want to know you _now._ ”

“I want the same thing,” Natasha says, and all of her _concern_ melts away. “I really, really do.”

His smile is almost timid. “Good.” His breath smells of cinnamon.

“Coffee,” Natasha says, and now _he_ looks confused.

“What?”

“I said I’d help you with your coffee,” Natasha says. “I can help you with it this Thursday?”

His smile grows. “I think I can squeeze that into my schedule.”

 

 

Wednesday morning, Natasha goes to see Clint. He’s still in town, and it’s rare to catch him away from his farm these days, so she makes the most of it.

They chat easily about Laura and the kids while Clint works on his bow and Natasha sits on his workbench with her legs swinging above the floor. It’s strange being in his workshop in her t-shirt and sneakers rather than her suit; she’s still adjusting to life out of the field, and though she doubts it’ll be forever, she’s enjoying it. Clint isn’t exactly _in_ the field, anymore — he pops back for bow upkeep, sometimes, so the new recruits can use them (not that there _are_ any new recruits who want to use them, but Clint keeps insisting _someone_ will, eventually) and, like her, occasionally helps out with training. It tugs at Natasha’s heart, sometimes, to see the newest recruits, the ones that haven’t been hurt by the world ( _yet,_ she thinks, when she feels cynical). She tries to let them know what they’re in for, tries to put them through every single exercise she can imagine before they can even think about the field, but she knows no one can ever prepare them for everything.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Clint asks her, eventually, because he knows her too well. “You’re distracted by something, I can tell.”

She does her best to smile at him, and he sees through that, too.

“Is this about the party the other night?” Clint asks. “I saw you leaving with Barnes.”

She’d told him about the Winter Soldier, the man who trained her, the man who shot her. She’d never told him about _James,_ and what they’d had. It wasn’t only hers to tell.

“Yeah, we went out,” Natasha says.

Clint looks at her, waiting.

“There might be…more,” Natasha starts, slowly. “To what I told you about us.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and _this_ is what made it so easy to talk to him back then, because he’d just _listen_ until she’d said everything she wanted (needed) to say. The SHIELD agents had poked and pried at her words until she’d closed up entirely.

“It’s not just my story to tell,” she says, and tries to smile at him again. She doesn’t say that her memories of them belonged to her and her alone; James didn’t have them anymore, so she would keep them close, keep them safe, keep them secret — she would hold them the same way people keep pictures in lockets hanging over their hearts.

“Oh,” Clint says. He’s still waiting.

“We’re going for coffee tomorrow,” Natasha says, and shrugs. “He came round my apartment yesterday and we watched movies all night. I think it’s something.” She remembers what she’d told Steve: _we have what we have when we have it_. She’d had James, she’d lost James, and now she might have him back again. Just…differently. Very differently. But she likes it, so far.

“I see,” Clint says, and she can see him trying to reach for words. She’s not surprised.

“It’s not something I’ve told anyone,” Natasha says, and knows Clint is beginning to understand what she means. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything.”

“Don’t apologise,” Clint says, and puts a hand on her knee, squeezes. “I trust you. I know you have good reasons for everything you do.”

There’s _something_ lodged in her chest, right by her heart. She tries to breathe around it. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her, then hands her a bow. She takes it without thinking. “Come help me train the newbies. Oh, and Laura wants to know when you’re next round for dinner.”

“Next time you make tacos,” Natasha says immediately, hopping off the work bench to follow him downstairs. The something in her chest is growing, swelling. She already knew she’d found her family, but there are times when she’s reminded, and it’s overwhelming in the best way. 

“Next Friday,” Clint calls over his shoulder from the end of the corridor, and Natasha grins and runs to catch up.

 

 

That night, while she’s lounging across her sofa and half-watching TV, her phone vibrates with a text from an unsaved number. 

_okay about tomorrow. where and when?_

She stares at her screen for a moment, but before she can unlock her phone, another text comes through.

( _steve gave me your number)_

She smiles, and replies _the starbucks two blocks from my place at 2. don’t be late!_

He replies with the rosey cheeked smile emoji and the running man, and she laughs.

 

 

The barista is remarkably patient, Natasha thinks. James is staring at the menu above the counter, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, arms folded. She’s never seen him so confused, and she’d been with him in Wakanda when he saw the aliens for the first time.

“Okay,” he says. “I give up. What should I get?”

She pats his arm. “Let’s start you off with a latte, champ.”

When the barista finally gets to take their order, Natasha orders the latte with a shot of cinnamon.

There’s a booth free in the back corner, and James heads straight for it, holding his cup with two hands. Natasha follows, slides in opposite him, and blows across the top of her cappuccino. “Okay,” she says, eyes on her drink. “My turn. Favourite movie?”

He smiles at her. “I gotta say, Mulan is up there.”

She feels the glow again. It makes her feel warm, cosy in her own skin. “Is that so? I’m glad you’ve got good taste.”

“Sam made me watch Back to the Future with him,” he says. “I think that’s been my favourite so far.”

“Sci-fi,” she says, thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“Sam and Steve have already made me a list of more to watch,” James says, and rolls his eyes, but affectionately. “I think Jurassic Park is next.”

“Oh, you’ll love that,” Natasha says.

“You should watch it with us,” James says, and finally takes a sip of his drink. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Good?” Natasha asks, side-stepping the invitation, because she has no idea how Steve will react to finding out she knew more about James than she let on, and she’d rather not find out in the middle of Jurassic Park.

“Very,” James says, and takes another sip.

She finds out that James thinks hot dogs from street vendors are still unbeatable as far as food goes, that he prefers Christmas Eve to Christmas Day, that he loves watching nature documentaries, and that he has a sister called Rebecca.

“She’s still alive,” Bucky says, quietly. “I go visit her when I can.”

“How is that?” Natasha asks.

“It’s…” he sighs, directs his words to the space between her head and shoulder. “She tells me everything she did after I…you know. She has so many stories. And she has children, and they have children. I have a whole family out there.” He smiles, slightly rueful. “The grandchildren always want stories from me, but there aren’t many I can tell them.”

Her heart feels heavy. “Tell them about the time you helped save the universe from Thanos.”

His smile grows a bit. “That’s the one they want the most. They keep asking to meet T’Challa.”

She laughs. “He _is_ the coolest of us.”

“I’ve told Rebecca almost everything,” James says, and it sounds like he’s forcing his voice casual. “I wasn’t sure if she should hear it, but she insisted.” He looks at her and grins. “You’re her favourite Avenger.”

The glow is burning brighter. “I’m honoured.” She can’t quite keep her tone light.

“I’m sure she’d love to meet you, sometime,” he says, and then his eyes widen a bit. “If—if you want to, you don’t have—.”

“I’d love to,” she says, and his smile is as hopeful as it is relieved.

 

 

“When are we doing this again?” James asks her, when he’s walked with her back to her apartment (according to him, it’s on his way, but she knows it isn’t). 

“Whenever you want,” Natasha says. “I don’t have any official responsibilities anymore.”

“Don’t you teach the new Avengers?” James asks. “Steve’s always talking about it.”

“Sometimes,” she says, and shrugs one shoulder. “I guess Steve’s pretty bored now, huh?”

James rolls his eyes. “He keeps offering to teach Sam shield-throwing techniques. It’s the only time I ever actually see them argue.”

Natasha laughs. “What about you? What are you doing these days?”

She knows a bit — that he’s been taking some college classes, that he occasionally meets with historians, that he spends a lot of time in libraries.

“I’m just…” he swings his arm at his sides, takes a deep breath of the spring air, and then says, gaze steady on hers, “Finding my place in the world.”

Her breath catches — she hears herself saying _I have no place in the world_ and shakes it away. “I’ve been there.” 

He smiles, very slightly. “I know.”

 

 

They carry on like that for two weeks, going back for coffee and bubble tea and walking round the city, cups in hand. They keep asking each other questions, learn more about who they are, now, and Natasha thinks that’s what James really meant when he spoke about  _catching up._ Not their past, but their future. He’d started taking her advice already. 

James winds up at her apartment more than a few times, but all they do is watch whatever’s on TV and keep talking and talking. He’s so _easy_ to talk to — he always has been, but now, it’s even easier. She keeps reminding herself there’s no time limit anymore, no risk of someone bursting through the door and finding them leaning against each other on her couch and it _mattering._ She thinks James feels the same, because sometimes she catches him looking at her with his eyes wider than usual, like he’s amazed by her, by the fact that she’s there at all. Every time she notices, it brings back that warm feeling.

When she goes to Clint’s for the weekend, halfway through their two weeks, she ends up on the back porch on her own while Clint does the dishes and Laura puts the kids to bed. James has sent her a video of Sam and Steve playing frisbee with the shield, and Clint finds her watching it and laughing.

“I take it that’s still going well,” Clint says, nodding at her phone, and Natasha can’t tell if he means Sam’s newfound rank of Captain or the thing growing between her and James.

“It is,” she says, because it’s true for both.

He sits down next to her on the porch swing and hands her a drink. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says, and they drink in silence until Laura comes back outside.

 

 

Tony invites them all back to Avengers tower for another party (well, he insists it’s not actually a party, just a _casual meeting,_ which Natasha supposes means she can wear jeans and he can’t be annoyed) and before Natasha answers the invitation, she texts James. 

_are you going?_ she asks, and then stops to consider if he’s even been invited. She’s pretty sure he’s tagged along (or been dragged along) as Steve or Sam’s plus one every time she’s seen him at one of these things.

 _if_ _you are,_ he replies.

 _sure, why not,_ she sends back, before she can regret it.

 

 

It turns out to _actually_ be a casual meeting — just the Avengers, current and former, and some friends. Natasha hangs back from the sofas for a moment just to watch; the only outward sign that the Accords even happened is that Steve and Tony will only sit opposite each other now. She supposes there’s nothing like an intergalactic threat to bring people together, and sits down next to Steve. 

When James arrives, he sits next to her.

 

 

The night is mostly just drinking and chatting, which suits Natasha just fine. She catches up with Sam and Steve, laughs when Sam complains about how awkward the shield is to fly with and Steve starts trying to give him advice until Sam says “it was a _joke,_ man!”, and, as she’s been doing a lot, lately, talks to James. 

“There are lots of drinks now, too,” he says, and hands her a cocktail, because of course Tony hired a bartender for a  _casual meeting_. “I don’t even know what this is.”

“Luckily for you, you can drink as many as you like without getting drunk,” Natasha says. “Try them all.”

“They just taste like bitter fruit juice,” he says, and takes an experimental sip of his drink. Natasha laughs when he winces and puts it straight back on the bar.

“You’re wasting good alcohol, Barnes,” Clint says, and James starts like he hadn’t noticed him walking up behind them. Maybe he hadn’t — maybe he’s already mastered the art of switching off in a room full of friends. He’ll have to teach her that, someday.

“All alcohol is wasted on me,” James says, and pushes the drink towards Clint. “You can have it.”

“Don’t drink it,” Sam says, sliding in between them. “This man drinks milk from the carton, he’s a menace.”

“You _do?_ ” Natasha says, and James actually goes red.

“Sometimes,” he says — mumbles — to the ground. “But Sam drinks the juice right from the bottle!”

“You shouldn’t be drinking _my_ juice,” Sam says.

“If Steve hears us having this argument again, we’ll never hear the end of it,” James says, and Steve walks over to them as if summoned.

“I heard my name and _argument_ in the same sentence.”

“Bucky started it,” Sam says, and James actually _squawks._

“We’re not even arguing!”

Clint catches her eye and smirks, and Natasha grins back. They detach themselves from the group while James and Sam continue to not-argue.

“I like these meetings much better than the parties,” Natasha says, as they wander over to the other side of the room.

“Don’t we all,” Clint says. He nudges her gently with his elbow. “Everything still okay?”

“Definitely,” Natasha says.

 

 

The night ends with them crowded on the sofas, music still playing, and Natasha, without really thinking, lets her head drop onto James’ chest. It’s becoming a habit. 

After a moment of stillness, he puts his arm around her.

It feels like something significant, even if it probably doesn’t mean much to anyone else in the room (although she can feel Sam and Steve looking, and Clint). She relaxes back into him, shuts her eyes, breathes him in. He’s wearing a Henley under a denim jacket, and it’s incredibly soft against her cheek.

“This alright?” he murmurs, into her hair, and she nods. It's perfect, she thinks.

 

 

When the meeting’s over, James offers to walk her home. She says yes. 

He goes all the way up to her apartment door with her, and then Natasha holds the door open for him and he steps inside. He’s hesitant, like he hasn’t been there most days over the last two weeks. She wants to ease the tension out of him. 

“The…uh, _meeting_ was nice,” James says, and she drops her coat over a chair in the kitchen and says,

“It was.”

“Better than last time,” he says, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

“Much,” she says.

They look at each other, and then James takes his hands out of his pockets and steps towards her.

“I,” he says, and stops. She reaches up to push a strand of hair out of his face, tucks it behind his ear like he did for her on the bench, then lets her hand stay against his cheek.

His breath comes out shaky. “Are you sure?” he whispers, and when she nods, he leans down and kisses her.

She winds her arms round his neck and pulls herself in closer, until she’s pressed up against him, and he makes a soft noise against her mouth. He kisses her, touches her, like he thinks she’s fragile, like she’s something infinitely precious and he doesn’t want to handle her with anything but the utmost gentleness. It _should_ be annoying, but it makes her feel that warmth inside and out, so all she does is brush her fingers through his hair and kiss him back with the same softness.

When she pulls away, he’s flushed beautifully red. “Are you staying the night?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

“If you’ll let me,” he says, and she feels his breath against her lips. She leans back up and kisses him again, sliding her hands over his chest, feeling the muscle there, the way his stomach moves as he breathes fast.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll let you.”

 

 

She remembers how it feels to be touched by him, remembers what it feels like to touch _him_ , but, in her bed, in her apartment, safe and with all the time in the world, it’s so different it feels brand new. 

When she gasps _James,_ he stops to look at her with that same amazed look she’s been catching over the last few weeks, and the glow is so bright she might as well be on fire — but it doesn’t burn, not anymore.

She falls asleep with her head on his bare chest and his arm round her shoulders, and thinks she could get used to this.

 

 

The only thing that really changes between them afterwards is that, now, James will catch her hand on the street and hold it while they walk with their drinks, that he’ll throw his arm round her shoulders while they’re queuing for coffee, that he’ll kiss her on the forehead, the cheek, the mouth, whenever he feels like it. She returns the gestures in kind, loops her arm round his waist and kisses him whenever _she_ feels like it. There’s nothing to hide anymore. 

 

 

Later, he tells her, in the dark, in the quiet, about what happened to him after they were caught —  what they did to him, how they made him forget her, how he’d felt the faintest flicker of recognition in Odessa until something inside him snuffed it out like a chill to a candle flame. Natasha listens, her breath shuddering, and when he’s finished, she turns his face towards hers and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, like she’s terrified he’ll vanish if she stops. 

Eventually, he leans away just enough to whisper, “What about you?” His gaze is steady on her eyes, his hand soft on her face as he brushes her hair away. It reminds her of her earlier promise to herself, that this would be slow and sweet and good, not frenzied and desperate and fraught, so she takes a breath, and tells him everything.

She tells him how she’d tried to convince them she was still loyal, how it’d worked, how they were afraid to do too much to her in case it ruined what was already in her head. How she’d been desperate to find a way out. How Clint had found her like that, half in and half out of the Red Room, and how he’d trusted her despite everything, and how he’d brought her in (brought her _home_ ).

James winds his fingers through hers, squeezes her hand, brings it up to his mouth and kisses it gently. “We’re safe now.” He says. “I’ve got you.”

She moves closer to him, turns her head into his chest, and says, “And I’ve got you.”

 

 

“Do you think we should talk to Steve?” Natasha asks, a few months into what she’s started thinking of as _their relationship._

“He’s noticed we’re dating,” James says, from behind his book. His head is in her lap, and she’s playing absently with his hair while she watches TV.

“I know,” she says. “But do you think we should…explain?”

James lays his book down on his chest and looks up at her. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t like hiding things from my friends.” Especially not him.

“What have you told Clint?” James asks.

“Enough,” Natasha says. “I…didn’t feel like it was just my information to share.”

He frowns up at her. “You can tell him whatever you want, I don’t mind. You know I told Rebecca a bit about you.”

“And Steve?” Natasha asks.

His frown deepens. “Did you…tell him about me, before I knew who I was?”

“When he found out who you were, I didn’t tell him that you trained me, or that I knew you better than I’d let on,” Natasha says. She’s still stroking her fingers through his hair. "He knows about the other stuff."

James shrugs as best as he can in the position he’s in. “Nothing to do with him, ‘tasha.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I know.” She’s not sure how to explain how much his trust means to her, then and now, although she knows James would understand.

He sits up. “I’ll talk to him, if you want.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll do it. I want to.”

“Whatever you want,” he says, and kisses her forehead.

 

 

She meets Steve for lunch. He listens to her talk, and when she’s done, says, “It’s okay, Nat.”

She’s almost taken aback. “But I kept that information from you. It might’ve helped you find him.” She’s not sure it would’ve — and she was looking herself, too — but, still.

“It was private,” Steve says, and shrugs. “But I’m glad you found each other again,” he says, with a little smile, and Natasha feels so much warmth welling in her chest that she thinks she might burst.

“Me too,” she says, because there’s no way to articulate what’s swirling inside of her right then. The way he reaches across the table to put a hand on her arm makes her think he understands what she’s trying to say even if she can’t actually say it.

 

 

When she goes back to her apartment, which James has practically moved into (“I can’t keep fighting with Sam over the juice, Nat.”), James is on the sofa with his book. 

“It was fine,” Natasha says, from the doorway. 

“I know,” James says, and holds his phone up. “Sam and Steve want you to come watch Jurassic Park with us.”

“You _still_ haven’t seen it?” Natasha laughs, and drops onto the sofa beside him.

“No, I have,” James says, his arm settling around her shoulders. “But Sam loves it so much we’re watching it pretty much weekly at this point.”

“I’ll be there,” she says, and smiles at him, then leans up to press a kiss to his jaw.

 

 

Tony throws another party in Avengers tower to celebrate the new Avengers’ latest big win, and Natasha finds James out on the(ir) balcony, lounging forward over the railing, the line of his shoulders relaxed. 

“What are you doing, hiding out here?” she asks him as she slides the door open, and he turns towards her, smiles.

“Waiting for you,” he says, and holds a hand out to her. She takes it, lets him pull her in close, hold her against his chest. Natasha feels warm all over — maybe this _is_ still like fire, but it’s the kind she’d warm herself by, not the kind that'd burn her alive.

“Back in my day,” James starts, and she rolls her eyes, “we used to dance differently.”

"We should put _you_ in Jurassic Park,” Natasha says.

“That would be funny if I didn’t hear it from Sam regularly,” James says, and slides his hand down to her waist, uses his other hand to take hers. “What I was _saying,_ is that we used to dance more like this.” He starts swaying side to side, holding her against him, and she tips her head back to smile at him.

“You’re a real old fashioned guy, huh?” she says.

“Very,” he says, and twirls her round. She falls back against his chest, then leans up to kiss him. He tucks her hair back behind her ear, and just looks at her for a moment. Her smile grows.

“You know,” she says. “This party’s kind of boring, and I know a place in the city nobody else does that we could escape to.”

“Hmm,” he says. “I think I know it too, actually. But why don’t you lead the way anyway.”

Natasha’s beaming at him, now, and she feels silly but she doesn’t care. James’s smile is wide, his gaze soft, and she’s so happy she could float right off the balcony if it wasn’t for the reassuring weight of his arm round her waist.

“Then let’s go,” Natasha says, and he leans down to kiss her again.

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't going to write any more but the response was just so sweet and people wanted more so i wrote more !!
> 
> i still haven't read enough comics so i am again sorry if this is ooc or inaccurate but i hope you enjoyed anyway!!
> 
> also i really wasn't sure whether to keep/include the part with nat and steve toward the end - i just think that nat would (wrongly) feel bad for not telling steve everything even though it's obviously none of his business, and steve would (probably) be okay with it but maybe not as okay with it as he is in this fic??? who knows though honestly i just love nat and steve's relationship in the mcu a lot so i kept it in but i'd love to hear what people think!! 
> 
> fic title from Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia, series title from Quarter Past Midnight by Bastille (can u tell i like naming things after songs wow)


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